


a thousand bones of gold

by sannlykke



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Alternate Universe - A Song of Ice and Fire, M/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-01
Updated: 2017-03-01
Packaged: 2018-09-27 17:16:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10035860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sannlykke/pseuds/sannlykke
Summary: "I seek a death.”“And whose death shall it be?”“My father’s,” the young man says. His eyes gleam as he speaks, and it is then you see his heterochromia. “The Lion of Yi Ti.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> Some mechanics of the ASOIAF universe have been altered for plot reasons (and as much as I love reading fic about Westeros there isn't nearly enough fic about Essos, particularly eastern Essos (which is basically fantasy Central/East Asia for all intents and purposes), so there.) 
> 
> Also doing this in second person just made it 500x more pretentious as fuck than usual but what else were y'all expecting from me anyway orz.
> 
> Happy birthday, Mayuzumi. _(:3｣∠)_

A young man stands at the edge of the pool, surrounded by the gods.

Even in the darkness it is easy for you to see he is from a wealthy family. The Myrish silk robe hugging his slim frame is of the finest quality, interwoven with seed pearls at the collar. An embossed cap sits primly atop his head, covering his hair save for a few wisps of red at the sides. The man’s eyes are sharp, and they are staring back at you.

A steady drip echoes throughout the room. 

“What is it you seek?”

It is easy enough predicting the answers, you have found, through your time here at the House of Black and White. _He is here to die, to escape a lonely marriage, to usurp his father’s throne, one of many petty kingdoms_. Your face betrays no emotion as you approach him. He is of slighter build than you, yet it is as if you are the one being looked down upon.

“I seek a death.”

You can hear footsteps behind, murmuring voices, shuffling off into the darkness of the many caverns and rooms of the house. A whiff of spices, ginger and cumin and saffron and more, reminds you of the long-ago journey you took to Tiqui at the edge of the Great Sand Sea, for your first assignment. He had probably taken the route through the market here, though it would be closing at the moment.

“And whose death shall it be?”

“My father’s,” the young man says. His eyes gleam as he speaks, and it is then you see his heterochromia. “The Lion of Yi Ti.”

 

 

“Does he have the means to pay?” One of your colleagues, the bear, asks, as you convene in one of the chambers for the monthly meeting. It is the last task of the day, as the rest of the assignments have already been doled out among them. “It will be an extraordinary expense, even for a man such as he.”

“Sent in this morning,” the handsome man answers, lifting a corner of the scraggly blanket covering various chests already stacked in the room. “Trust the riches of the Golden Empire to not disappoint. You will carry out the task.”

“It is done then,” you say. They dip their heads—the stern-faced, the sharp-eyed, the historian. “To serve Him of Many Faces. I will leave in the morning. _Valar morghulis._ ”

“ _Valar dohaeris_ ,” someone murmurs in reply, from the back.

 

 

He is waiting for you near the Chequy, the port brimming with ships from every place imaginable at this hour of the day. You know his name by now: Akashi Seijuurou, the first and only son of the Crimson Emperor of Yi Ti. The turmoils of the eastern front had been rising and falling for the past few centuries, with the vast distance between the cities slowing the news. War had broken out yet again, but not for long this time.

“What should I call you?” He asks as you board the ship. Unlike the Braavosi, who seemed respectful enough to get out of your way once they realize who you are, Akashi speaks to you in commands. You cannot tell if it is foolishness or bravery, but perhaps it is neither. “This will be a long journey. Even a false name, if you will.”

“Yes,” you say. It would not matter what your name is to a prince, whether you speak the truth or not.

And then, because he would not take his eyes off you, you relent. The words feel strange against your tongue as you speak, a name that had not come to you in a long time. “Mayuzumi Chihiro.”

“Then, Chihiro,” Akashi says, as his gaze turns towards the sailors untying the ropes, “We shall have an interesting year ahead of us, no?”

(You do not know what to make of the glint in his eye.)

 

 

Rarely do clients ask for assignees to travel with them, much less in this fashion. You find Akashi somewhat overbearing at times, but there isn’t much you can do about it; the vessel is large, but not large enough for you to find much-needed quiet respite.

Nor is there any language barrier separating you. Akashi speaks multiple languages perfectly and without accent, and it does not take him more than a few conversations to deduce your origins.

“Have you been to the Shadow Lands?” He asks you, in your native tongue and his, one day after the vessel had left Pentos. “Jinqi is not far from there. I’ve visited, once.”

“Then you will know that the gates are always closed,” you say, too hastily. After a moment you glare at him, at the little smile forming on his lips. “It does not matter where I am from. I am no one.”

 _As you should well know_. You don’t know if he gets the message or not, but it is disquieting for an outsider to see beneath the face you wear. Though, you acknowledge, it is a truth that there is power in blood, and whatever sorceries the god-emperors of the far east deal in is an unknown even to their own people.

Akashi, for his part, only shrugs and looks out at sea. The jagged, broken coasts of the Stepstones are in the distance, and the sea is dotted with dozens of other ships on their merry way. The wind hits your face then, salty and warm. This summer has been longer than any in your memory, but the days have been passing like molasses, one day dripping listlessly into the other. You have not been out in the open for a long time.

“No one,” he says finally, after a long while. “Like a shadow instead of a man.”

“I am whatever you want me to be.”

(If it is strange that someone like him, a man one day to be worshiped as a god, would take such an interest in you, you do not find it concerning at the moment.)

 

 

The ship stop at Lys, filling up with barrels of fine wine, both red and white, part of the needed tribute to the emperor. It would be strange to return home without much in hand, you surmise as you watch Akashi converse with one of the traders. Young as he looks, he seems to be well-traveled, or perhaps well-tutored inside the cloistered palaces of Yin; the flow of his High Valyrian shifting from the Braavosi accent to lyrical Lyseni. Perhaps, you think idly, he would have made a fine follower of Him of Many Faces, were he born under other circumstances.

“Is there something else you wanted to buy?” You ask when night falls, letting yourself into his cabin without asking. Akashi looks down at you from his seat, frowning. Someone knocks on the door. “That.”

“That,” Akashi says, eyes narrowing, “Is none of your business. I do not pay you to ask questions.”

You shrug. “Fine.”

The clink of glass vials and shuffling gaze following Akashi’s next visitor is enough to tell you what wares the trader is peddling. If the revelation hurts your pride, you do not dwell on it; all death is, is not a discriminating gift.

 

 

It was not so long ago that you had arrived at Braavos, compared to those who had been there longer. But they did not have to take the long road you took across the continent, your colleagues at the House of Black and White. You don’t know all of their stories, of course—

(There had been screaming, your hand pulled by someone, away from the fray. You don’t remember what it was all about anymore, so young were you, but—)

Sometimes in bed you feel sense a feeling of being watched, between being rocked by the waves and the silence of the cabin. You don’t know what it is—glass candles, maybe, or some arcane spell more annoying than threatening. Or perhaps it is nothing but your mind, so inundated in Akashi’s eyes that even without him here you are starting to believe he is in the room with you.

It is a strange feeling, being watched, when nobody else has ever cared to do so before.

“Could you maybe stop that.”

“Stop what?”

You give him a long look; both of you are at the starboard, gazing at the specks in the distance that make up the Summer Islands. A soft wind is blowing, ruffling your hair, and Akashi’s. “You might have not paid for me to ask questions, but you also did not pay to ogle. Did you?”

Akashi smiles wanly. “I wasn’t aware you think I can appear everywhere.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“Perhaps.”

He doesn’t answer your question, but you do not ask further. Instead, you stand right next to him, and grab his hand. Behind you, you can hear the clink of weapons, but the guards step down as Akashi holds up his other hand. Then he looks at you, bright eyes and flaming hair and all. “I see the House does not stripped its inhabitants of everything they own.”

“In Braavos, every man is free,” you tell him, letting go. There is more muscle there in his skinny arms than you’d thought. “Though you wouldn’t care to know that, would you?”

“Careful now,” Akashi says, looking forward over the open sea. His lips are still turned upward, and you want to reach over and twist it down. “ _You_ wouldn’t want someone else hearing that, would you? A man of your learning, that is.”

 

 

You don’t have many memories of Jinqi.

It is all there, though, buried underneath layers and layers of your training. You do not have a name anymore you can call your own; they come and go as fast as the faces you slide on. Some of them fit more than others; this one fits very well, perhaps the best fit yet.

(There is a palace, silken robes of many colors, but all of it is fleeting and gone the moment you wake.)

You are no one, until the prince descends upon you again. Sometimes he does not even speak, and only stands next to you as you read, or looks discreetly out to sea as you doze on deck. The ship is large, but sometimes you think half of the cargo is his wardrobe; Akashi does not flaunt his wealth in flamboyant dress as do merchants and wealthy corsairs, but one look at the detail of muted crimson embroidery on his vest tells you it alone would cost more than a years’ income from even a well-to-do artisan.

“Look,” he says, one day when it is sweltering hot, and you wonder how he isn’t already taking his clothes off like several of the oarsmen have already done. You follow his gaze to smouldering Valyria in the far distance. No ship would skirt close, you know, but still it sends a chill down your spine. “The ruins of a once-great civilization.”

“An empire of slavery and dark magic,” you mutter as you close the book you were reading. The smoke stretches for miles, obscuring any sight of land that might have remained. “Nothing to see there now.”

“Of course,” Akashi murmurs in reply. The strange, unsettling smile is back, and you find it hard to look away. “It was not the only one. But yes, nothing to see.”

You think about the House, the inner sanctuary with rows and rolls of tattered books and scrolls, your fingers brushing over lines given over to history. The Fourteen Flames had fed Valyrian magic for centuries until the Doom; other empires had risen and fallen, people enslaved and freed, for thousands of years on the other side of the continent.

Akashi’s eyes are still trained on you, and you sigh. “What is it.”

“Even now there is war,” he says, leaning against the rail. “Between my country and the Jogos Nhai, and reavers from the Shadow Lands. When I come to the throne—”

“—you will quash them in the way your father and his father and his father’s father were not able to do, freeing the enslaved, giving prosperity to your people,” you finish. You know well this story, and its players that had cycled through history in Targaryen Westeros, in the petty kingdoms, in the wars between the Free Cities. As such, there is no inhibition in your voice as you continue, “Is that supposed to impress me?”

“Nothing impresses you lot,” comes a voice from behind. You look up to see Mibuchi Reo standing there, his arms folded. “Sei-chan, why don’t we go inside? It’s cooler in the shade.”

The ship had picked up a retinue of Akashi’s most trusted confidantes and guards at Volantis, having been separated in case Akashi’s identity was discovered early. It is in itself a feat that nobody has recognized him thus far, when YiTish travelers and traders frequent the seas as often as any other people. If Akashi had been traveling under disguise, you would have discovered it already—but he is not, and the confidence of a prince that exudes from every fibre of his being has seen to that. 

Or it is because most people, you conclude after your observations, simply do not care. You don’t say a word as Akashi pushes himself away from the rail to follow Mibuchi back to the cabin, but the strange look in his eyes linger in your head all the same.

(Their robes, fluttering in the wind, fade from your eyes as you turn back to the _Jade Compendium_ in your hand.)

 

 

The ship docks at Asabhad, where you part ways.

“If—when—you see me in Yin, do not approach nor talk to me.”

He had sent word ahead of his return, ostensibly from one of those trips young royalty and nobles take to see the world. It is not really a lie, you think, as you watch him converse rapidly with Mibuchi and Hayama, and several other officers besides. There is some code in it, you can tell—the look in his retainers’ eyes are different enough for you to tell.

Nebuya readies your horse, a fine dappled grey specimen. You do not have horses like these in the Free Cities, nor among the Dothraki; too slender for a raiding or a packing horse, but strong enough to take you and your belongings on easily.

Akashi looks back at you one more time.

“I will see you again.”

“Yes,” you reply. The wind blows your bangs in front of your eyes, hindering your sight, but the red is burned too deeply into your mind.

The road is long. You will have much time to think about the logistics of a coup as large and as coordinated as this one, and your own role in the midst of it all.

 

 

You had been allocated two months for travel to Yin, more than twice the needed time. So first, you take the road less traveled, to the other edge of the empire. You are not trained for this; rather, you were repeatedly trained out of this, but something, _something_ —pulls you toward the city like a ship towards a lighthouse.

Even its precarious location at the edge of the Shadow Lands does not dim Jinqi’s thriving trade. You wrinkle your nose as you pass through the grand marketplace—on paper there is no slavery in Yi Ti, but even a paid laborer here is treated little better than one. Beyond that, you see the marks of a city ill at ease; whispers of uprisings in the villages, of reavers stealing children in the middle of the night, of the far-away troubles in the Imperial City.

“—sick, he won’t last past the New Year, I don’t think.“

“Don’t say that,” another man growls. You are in one of the many taverns dotting the city center, drinking mulberry wine next to some minor officials. Their hats are pulled low across their eyes, and even the atmosphere is strained as they continue their banter. “The prince is back from his travels, I hear.”

“Why not? The emperor is far away—stuck to a golden bed, he won’t hear any of this,” someone else says. There is a murmur of agreement among the men. One of them waves down an attendant, shoving empty glasses at him. He lowers his voice. “You know the sorcery behind all this, his son—“

Someone makes a disparaging noise that signals the end of the conversation, and you turn away from them, finishing your drink. In the bottom of your glass you imagine a crimson eye staring back at you, probing, asking. You feel unsettled as you turn away, put a coin on the table, and leave.

On the outskirts of Jinqi you find a narrow road, so narrow your horse takes up the entirety of it, leading up to the mountaintop that overlooks the city, its gates, and the Shadow Lands beyond. In a past life you used to come here and sit at the edge of the cliff, your hands firmly planted on the ground, feeling the earth beneath your skin. In those times you had often looked to the west, to Leng Yi across the water, and to Yin further off around the northern shores of the Jade Sea. The wealth of the capital were storied even then, and unlike the kingdoms across the Narrow Sea, the magic had never left.

But you are not him now. You are no one.

You ascend the hill, leaving the horse at the foot of the faint path. At the end of it you find the rock you had known ten years ago, maybe twenty, worn from wind and rain and still warm from something unknown. You sit on it and think about Akashi, your mission, his reward, the things you had left behind.

There are storm clouds gathering over the east, over the plains, coming this way. You stand up and start to walk.

 

 

The talk is the same no matter where you turn, you’d discovered not long into your journey across the country, but the _why_ of it all eludes you even as you make your way slowly towards the capital city. This time, you are with a group of travelers, disguised as a trader from the border towns coming into town for a business deal.

Akashi would be there already, a year older, being showered with praise and gifts and feasts for the sights he had seen and new alliances forged. Those moonless nights upon the deck when he’d stood there and looked out to sea while you watched, unwittingly, is something that comes to mind as you finally see the city walls of Yin in the distance. It is night, and the clouds are low and thick. Rain will fall soon, then snow. The long summer is not at an end yet, but you know it would not be long before it is.

“Seems like we brought the storm over, eh?” One of the other travelers in the caravan says, jokingly. “Won’t be the best weather on the morrow.”

Nobody else says a word as you reach the walls and set up camp, to wait for the gates to open at dawn. You tie your horse to a tree with the others and lay a thick woven blanket over her back, something you picked up in a bazaar you don’t remember the name of anymore.

You did not bring anything. The storm was already here.

 

 

Every traveler who comes to the city must pay their respects to the Emperor, regardless of their status or trade. In the dawn the city awakens and they are escorted inside, to the city center. There, they bow three times to a bronze likeness before being let loose to their respective businesses.

The city is a maze, built and rebuilt again and again after every war, every succeeding dynasty. Every block of stone you touch had been carved at a different time, and you see the weathering and moss in the deepest corners of each dead end. You melt into one of the thousands of alleyways and start making your way towards the center, where the golden palace sits. In the air hangs a thread of familiarity

_—a past life, a fleeting memory, a flutter of pages—_

and you have no problem finding your way there though you are sure you have never visited this place before.

Everywhere, everywhere, the people are talking about the feast. In three days, you learn, the city would be celebrating the prince’s twenty-third birthday. Nobody would see you picking up a chef’s cap, a woodworker’s chisel, among the stream of workers and well-wishers pouring into the palace from all directions. Still, you hear whispers here and there, of things not being all they seem to be.

“Hey, you, take these to the east wing.”

The chief of staff turns away at another call, and you pick up the ornate chests sent in by several emissaries from Qarth. Nobody is looking at you as you slip into a side door, used by servants to pass through the palace unseen by the elites. You nod at others who pass you by with scarcely a glance; everyone is busy, and they would not begrudge you a shortcut.

“Prepare,” someone whispers in your ear, but when you jerk your head back there is nobody beside you but the rush of wind and winter chill. Up ahead someone drops a wooden pail to the ground; it gyrates along the stone floors, slowly, until it stops completely.

You are ready.

 

 

They were ready all along.

Akashi sits at the head of the long teak table, and with him a hundred other princes and nobles from all over the empire. There is talk, murmured praises and song; court musicians are playing in the background somewhere unseen, behind veils, and attendants come and go with plates filled to the brim with roasts and simmered stews, flowers and fruit fresh-picked from the orchards. A polite, businesslike smile sits on Akashi’s features, different from the smiles he had given you, but they are all the same in the end. He is not eating, but he takes a sip from the cup of wine before him.

It is known that Yi Ti has long been besieged by raiders from all sides, from other peoples hungry for the riches of the Golden Empire. But beneath that are the court intrigues and petty wars between the princes of each city and region, wealthy traders vying for influence, corsairs sacking towns equally for profit and for politics. You feel the tiny vial burning a hole through your pocket.

Mibuchi is standing next to Akashi, and he looks your way as you place another plate of chicken in front of the guests. He nods. Akashi does not look up.

Nobody pays any attention to you as you slip away from the crowd. A dull feeling looms over you as you make your way towards the emperor’s room in the innermost sanctum of the palace—still, you go.

The gift of death, for Him of Many Faces, is simply that: a gift. You have been paid, and now you shall do the deed. For centuries that has simply been the way of the Faceless Men.

_I am whatever you want me to be._

“A fool, maybe,” you say out loud to yourself. It is easy to slip past the guards unnoticed, so distracted are they by the drink brought over by other servants, your feet taking you away from the raucous noise. You stick by the shadows as you see the door, with three more soldiers guarding it. You make a right turn before they spot you, feeling the walls for the hidden door you know for certain is there.

It is there. You close your eyes, push, and you are inside.

 

 

When you come out from the front door the soldiers are gone. It is eerily silent, though you feel no time has passed at all, or very little for it to even matter. It had been no trouble at all to slip the Strangler into the medicine, and you had watched another person die. A death that you found to be inconsequential, in the grand scheme of things.

The hallways, empty and wide, echo with every step you take, and as you near the banquet hall again you can hear soft weeping.

You stop; there are bodies littered along the hallway, halfway out of the door. Those you step lightly over, silk fluttering in your wake. You are a little dizzy by now; this all seems familiar, though you have never before participated in a massacre to this scale.

Akashi is still in his seat, though he now appears to be asleep or in fever, his cheeks flushed as Mibuchi wrings a hot cloth and presses it to his forehead. Everyone in front of them is dead. You blink slowly, as if the world is falling away from you.

“You’re done?”

You look at him with narrowed eyes, but what escapes your mouth is a sigh of resignation. You hold out a hand, waiting for the inevitable. “History will remember this excess.”

Mibuchi’s mouth twists into something like a smile. “The prince—the Emperor—will hear of that when he wakes up. Guards—“

Someone grabs you roughly from behind, tearing your gaze from the mahogany chair and the man sitting there.

And you wait, and you wait, and you wait.

 

 

In the dark damp cell you hear talk among the guards, though they do not seem to know they are talking about you. The court is in chaos: an assassin from one of the borderland princedoms had poisoned the royal family and the feastgoers, they said, killing all but the crown prince. Even then, he is still hidden away from view, too weak to meet with the public at the moment.

An army had been assembled by someone-or-another on his behalf; you do not need to hear the rest, after that.

Someone brings you food once in the morning and once in the evening. Your wrists are tied together, though not tightly, and you are free to move around from your cot to the stone wall five steps away. The guards do not talk to you or any of the other criminals in the cells next to yours, though after three days you are not even sure if they exist.

Everything is quiet except for a constant drip of water seeping in from some invisible crack; when you sleep, each drop sounds like a veritable wave crashing over your ears. Still, some things are easier to understand when you are asleep.

Once Akashi is healed, you will be executed. If you leave, escape somehow, you know the House will send someone after you, and it would be worse than death.

So you stay.

 

 

_You dream about a mansion._

_In your childhood your father sold you to the big house, far away from your hometown, in the capital city where you know no one. Even then they often forget you, small and thin and always disappearing into the nooks and crannies of the vast unending hallways. That was how you found the library, a place you weren’t supposed to be._

_“Who are you?”_

_The boy is younger than you, his clothes finer than anything you have ever owned. He takes your hand, pulling you towards a shelf among the sea of shelves, each holding as many books as you will never be able to finish in a lifetime. You don’t know what to make of this forwardness, but he points at a book. “Father said he’d send me a new reader today. Is that you?”_

_“Who are you?” You ask. In the small house overlooking a hill a mellifluous voice had taught you to read, and now you crack open the book the other boy hands you. The words are much too complicated, but you try anyway. “Colloquo Votar?”_

_“He wrote stories about the west,” the boy says, pointing at a picture on the page. The ink, faded with time, draws an outline of a vast sea. “The last tutor left off at the story about Qarth, the one about the dragons.”_

_Then, “You don’t know who I am?”_

_“No,” you reply. You hadn’t been expecting someone to bother you, and especially not an inquisitive child like the one you are staring at right now. “I don’t. I’m Chihiro. Who are you?”_

_The boy smiles and leans forward. “Seijuurou. My name is Seijuurou.”_

 

 

“You, get up.”

They escort you out of the cell, unfastening the ropes around your wrist. You look at the guards strangely, and they simply shrug, but insistently tug you along. On your way there, tucked between two tall, surly men, you realize where you are headed.

It is time for the beheading.

From your position at the side you can see a few other prisoners lined up, though they seem much more calm than you expected. They wouldn’t be the ones up on the platform today, though. You take another step towards the platform, but someone grabs you from behind.

“What are you doing?” The guard asks roughly, shoving you back in line. “You want to die too?”

You stare at him, and then a horn sounds. Someone you have never seen before is led on to the platform, his head covered in ragged cloth. The head executioner stands to one side waiting, sword in hand.

You watch, as he declares the beheading of the man responsible for the assassinations, the new Emperor’s promise to avenge the fallen men, the new battles won by his armies at the borderlands. The sword is swung. You turn away towards the battlements, towards the person standing there in front of the rising sun.

Akashi’s eyes, red and gold and much too triumphant, easily seek out yours.

 

 

“That was some game,” you say at last, when you are finally alone. Your training had taught you to suppress yourself, but in the end perhaps that is still not enough. Akashi looks up at you, at the moonlight seeping through the windows, at your fingers around his slender neck. He presses a finger to your lips, and you shudder. “How did you know?”

“The gods have always favored me. A lucky guess.”

“A lie,” you tell him. You can smell the sweetness of perfumed silk, and underneath that a scent of herbal medicine. If you are meant to be angry, to give the gift when you are not under contract, to weep or scream or laugh—well. You have come too far to be disappointed again. “I was not paid to be lied to. But it isn’t a bad one, all things considered.”

Akashi’s lips move softly, a gleam of moonlight in his eye. It does not matter anymore, truly, whether or not it is a lie, and both of you know that. “I thank you for your service, Chihiro. For all this time.”

He says something else, but by then the words are lost in the crevice of your neck as you lean down, muscles pulled taut, and make a new gift for yourself.

**Author's Note:**

> The Chinese idiom「千金買骨」(buying bones with a thousand pieces of gold) refers to a story wherein a king is seeking a good horse worth a thousand pieces of gold. Being unable to find one, he commands a guard to seek out a suitable horse for him. When the guard finally finds one, the horse is already dead; nevertheless, he buys its bones for five hundred pieces of gold. When the king angrily asks him why he wasted the money, the guard replies that now that the world knows the king is willing to pay five hundred for even a dead horse, people will now know the king is sincere in his want for a good horse. Within the year, breeders flocked to the capital and the king was able to buy all the horses he wanted.
> 
> (This story really hasn't got much to do with the fic.)
> 
> (Maybe.)


End file.
